


Morning

by FuneralMute (AnnabelLenore)



Series: A Den of Foxes [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:28:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8214218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnabelLenore/pseuds/FuneralMute
Summary: "He was gone. But really, what did he expect as he mused over the void that had been left on the other side of the bed, the wrinkled sheets only evidence that he had ever been there."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post I once saw on tumblr.

He was gone. But really, what did he expect as he mused over the void that had been left on the other side of the bed, the wrinkled sheets only evidence that he had ever been there. The Grand Moff was an exceedingly busy man; he had much more important things to attend to than the hazy aftermath of what transpired the night before. The Director himself could not be bothered with such idle activities or the emotions that came part and parcel either; he had his own duties to attend to. 

They had been seeing each other in such a manner for several months now, but this was the first time such an encounter had occurred in the flat Krennic kept, but hardly used, on Corsucant. The man could not quite put an explicit word or even feeling to it, but it felt as if over the course of time they had moved beyond just _using_ each other as a means to their own specific ends, and such rumination on the matter caused a twinge in his chest as he took another survey of the empty room as he sat up in bed. 

Orson lazily rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and ran a hand through his hair which was in a horrendous state of disarray. He stretched with a low groan, joints popping audibly and then got up to dress in the pajamas that never got worn the night before. His uniform, one of which lay in various places across the floor, could wait until he had to go out in public. The only thing on his mind now was getting himself a cup of caf, and he walked with shuffling yet purposeful gait towards the kitchen. 

A savoury smell wafted from his target location, and he stopped midway in his trek to sniff at the air, brows furrowing in a look of genuine confusion. He now crept forward, intent on investigating. Slinking around the corner towards the kitchen doorway, he spotted, much to his surprise, the Grand Moff bustling about his kitchen preparing breakfast and wearing the only other set of pajamas Krennic kept at the flat which did not fit him quite as well as their intended wearer. Orson rubbed at his eyes again, now gawking at the scene, and wondered vaguely if he was still asleep and dreaming. 

Tarkin tutted as he walked back over to the stove, not ever looking up but knowing full well that Orson was just outside the doorway. “It’s nearly 1100 hours. I never thought you to be such the idle type in the mornings.” Though his back was turned, one could nearly feel the smirk that was on his lips. 

Krennic shot a glare at the other man and proceeded to sit down at the small table off to the side of the room, all the while watching intently. 

“You should count yourself lucky that I’m resourceful.” Tarkin commented while quickly glancing over his shoulder. “Your cupboards were nearly bare. How do you live like this?” 

“It’s not like I’m here very often. There’s no point in keeping much food around.” Krennic countered, grumbling. 

“But you have company over. It’s _shameful_.” 

Orson looked thoroughly unamused. “I did not _plan_ on having you over.” Things had, well, just _happened_. 

Wilhuff shook his head gravely. “A poor excuse, Director. I thought you were capable of more foresight than this. You’re _insufferable_.” 

The other man gritted and bared his teeth at the turned back of the other, before getting up, shoulders hunched, to get a mug from the cupboard and pour himself a cup of caf that had recently finished percolating. On his return trip, he took a detour to wrap an arm tightly around Wilhuff’s waist. 

“ _You’re_ insufferable.” Orson growled into the others ear before nipping at his lobe and then at the bruise that had bloomed on Wilhuff’s neck. 

For a split second, the Grand Moff considered hitting the director with the cast iron pan still in his grasp, but instead he turned his head intent on a kiss. They mutually agreed to entertain a brief moment of gentle affection before Tarkin bit down on Krennic’s bottom lip and then dragged his teeth across the tender flesh. Orson moaned faintly and dug his fingers into the others side before Wilhuff shoved him away. 

“Sit down, I’m almost finished.” His voice had taken on that commanding sternness, and with another glancing glare Krennic did as he was told. 

In a few minutes’ time, balancing two plates in one hand and his own mug of caf in the other, Wilhuff sauntered over to the table and set one plate in front of Orson before placing the other before his own seat. The Imperial director looked down at the indistinguishable blob on the plate with an expression of distaste, nose twitching and lip curling. It smelled good, but its appearance was want to tell a different story. He poked at it with his fork. 

Wilhuff had already begun to eat, and slowly raised his icy gaze at Krennic’s hesitance. “I did the best with what I had. If you don’t like it, then you can go hungry.” He took a sip of caf and set the mug down harshly against the table to punctuate his point. 

Orson grumbled something unintelligible and shoveled a large forkful of the food into his mouth. He chewed a moment, his face going through several different expression changes before swallowing. 

Tarkin took another sip of caf and raised a brow. “And the verdict is…” 

There was an extended pause from the other end of the table. Orson tried to keep his expression and tone as nonchalant as possible. “Admittedly…” Another pause. “It’s not bad.” 

A smirk tugged at one corner of the Grand Moff’s lips, as if he had just won some sort of little victory, a smirk that made its appearance many times throughout their various encounters, both work related and otherwise. Feeling rather pleased by this accomplishment, he straightened his posture and continued to eat. 

The director was far from being wholly amused, to say the very least. Was everything some sort of battle or game with this man? He took another smaller bite of food, followed by a gulp of caf and then reached across the table for his neglected datapad. Just as he tapped the screen to turn the device on before sliding it over to himself, Tarkin reached his hand out and placed it firmly over Krennic’s and squeezed to the point of inflicting mild pain. “Don’t you think it’s rather _rude_ to delve into work while we are still enjoying breakfast?” 

Gritting his teeth and harshly exhaling, Orson turned his stern gaze to the other, though he did not attempt to remove his hand from the vice. He quirked a brow. “This is very uncharacteristic of you, _Mr. Workaholic_.” Bitter mockery was dripping from his lips. 

Tarkin continued to calmly smirk back. “Is it so wrong that I enjoy your company, and wish to experience it to the fullest, unhindered by the garish glare of a screen?” 

The spark of annoyance that bordered on anger that was building in Orson’s chest fizzled out. He was well aware that the governor respected him as a colleague, but even after last night it was difficult for him to even conceive the idea that such fond feelings extended farther than that. Krennic relaxed slightly, and with that cue, Tarkin relaxed his grip on the others hand. The contact now took a more affectionate overtone, thin, elegant fingers gently running over the rises and falls of Orson’s knuckles. With marked hesitation, the other man returned the gestures and soon their fingers were comfortably intertwined. 

Wilhuff was hardly ever one to be so soft in his gestures of this sort, or any sort for that matter and he surmised that Orson was the very same. However, there was some sort of difficult to distinguish feeling rising inside him towards the other man that made such a normally uncharacteristic display feel both natural and right. There was a lightness and warmth that surged through him at their contact, and he hoped that the feeling was mutual. 

Orson’s lips parted, and his intake of breath suggested that he had something to say on the matter, but the words got lost somewhere between his brain and his vocal chords, and he lowered his eyes. Though icy gazes kept trained on their meal, slight, quick glances detected small notes of high colour appearing on each of their faces, soft ghosts of genuine smiles pulling at both sets of lips.


End file.
